War. A merciless concept—one forged not from courage, but from necessity, delusion, and inherited fear. It doesn't knock. It doesn't ask. It takes.
The dread crawls beneath skin, into bone. The fear—oh, the fear—lives in the eyes of the enlisted, in the tears left behind on wooden floors, in the last kiss of a mother to her child. Men and women, barely more than shadows of who they once were, march not just to protect—but to gamble their lives on the slim hope of returning. They leave behind warmth, laughter, names written on nursery walls.
For what?
For duty? For country? For the illusion that violence can preserve peace?
